


Hollow Victory

by Swifty



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Assault, Beating, Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enemies, Explicit Language, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kayfabe Compliant, Mocking, No Way Out 2004, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, One Shot, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Platonic Cuddling, Punching, Punishment, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Revenge, Rivalry, Rough Sex, Sexual Assault, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swifty/pseuds/Swifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie quickly learns that being a champion isn't a walk in the park.</p><p>[ Two-parter one shot. Completed. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Why haven't you updated Blurred Lines yet?!?!!"  
> *closes laptop and runs away*

* * *

* * *

 

No Way Out

February 15, 2004

***

 

It was two hours after the end of the pay-per-view show. Eddie had hugged his mom and hermanos following his victory over Lesnar for the championship, shedding joyful tears with his family and praying with them backstage. Later, he went through the traditional celebratory exchange with the locker room and other staff members who were happy to see a change of ownership in the title. Now he was standing in the middle of the ring with the belt in his own two hands. He hadn't showered yet so he was still in his red tights, the tapes still wrapped around his wrists, looking around the vacant stadium. There was no one here, but he could hear the echoing cheers from the crowd earlier when he had won his match. He never expected the fans to go into a standing ovation and erupt into loud applauses for him, but he was truly grateful for the support.

 

Eddie was so lost in thought that he didn't realize he wasn't alone anymore, oblivious to the slight dip in canvas and the faint approaching footsteps from behind. His blissful moment was interrupted as bright pain flared up when something heavy slammed into the back of his head and he stumbled forward, losing his grip on the title. "Qué?!" he exclaimed, whirling around and glaring at the familiar face. "What the hell was that for, vato loco? Sore loser much?" he snarked, rubbing his head and wincing at the sting. 

 

Brock simply gazed coldly at the chicano with a ghost of a smile on his face. "Did you honestly think I'm just going to let you beat me and get away with it?" he sneered, stalking towards his former opponent, calculating eyes never once leaving the man in front of him. He bent down and grasped the championship, tossing it at Guerrero. "Put it on," he ordered, coming to a stop a few feet away from the smaller wrestler.

 

Eddie caught his newly-acquired gold and clutched it close to his chest, tilting his head to the side and staring puzzledly at the younger man. "Excuse me? Por qué?" he squeaked, not sure if he heard Lesnar correctly. He could understand if he was demanded to hand over the title, but to wear it? That didn't make any sense. "Did Goldberg hit your head too hard, ese?"

 

Brock growled low in his throat and slapped the latino across the face before tightly gripping the chin hard enough to break the skin. "I said, put the damn thing on. Don't make me repeat myself, runt," he spat, letting go and shoving the shorter rival against the turnbuckle. He wasn't in the mood to put up with Guerrero's smart ass comments today. He wanted to teach the bastard a lesson about respect, that he'd messed with the wrong guy. No one, most certainly not a washed up former druggie drunk, took his prize away from him. 

 

Eddie was frozen against the corner, swallowing uneasily and warning bells going off in his head. He hesitantly clasped the belt around his waist. He normally wasn't submissive like this, but the fast brutal pace of wrestling Lesnar took a lot out of him. He had bruises from hitting the apron after he was delivered one of the pendejo's vicious suplexes. "Felíz?" he muttered, placing his hands on his hips and arching a brow sardonically. His big mouth was going to get him in trouble one of these days, but he sure as hell wasn't going to roll over and show his stomach to Brock like he was some sort of dog.

 

Lesnar snorted in dry amusement and stepped right in his co-worker's personal space, taking advantage of their considerable height difference to look down at Eddie, pride washing over him when he saw the faint fear hiding behind the chestnut gaze. "If you're not going to treat me with respect, I'll beat it into you," he grumbled, throwing his knee up and ramming it into the toned stomach, a satisfied grin spreading across his face at the loud gasp.

 

Eddie lurched forward from the blow, the air getting knocked out of his lungs, his shoulders being grabbed and Brock continued kneeing him until he was coughing up blood. He clawed weakly at the chest once he was dragged away from the steel post and pushed forward to the center of the ring. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, his vision spinning and Brock blurring into multiple copies. He wasn't exactly young anymore -- 36 meant it was harder for him to shake off the pain and fatigue. "What's this? A rematch? Holmes, you're dumber than a puta callejera," he complained, sticking his tongue out childishly. 

 

Brock shook his head with a sigh. He sometimes did wonder which of them really was the older one. He straightened his shoulders and ran into Guerrero, tackling the chicano on the canvas and straddling the slim hips. "The only _puta_ here is you and don't you know, you're a champ? Stop throwing insults that a middle schooler could pull off better," he jeered, punching the other wrestler repeatedly in the face, his knuckles becoming stained with red. After a couple minutes of beating the idiot up, he sat back to admire his handiwork. There was a streak of blood going from Eddie's nose to the corner of the left eye as well as a trail from the mouth towards the hairline. The smaller body underneath him was barely breathing and he cursed inwardly when he realized he almost took it too far. He only wanted to punish the Mexican midget, not kill him. "Weak bitch," Lesnar scoffed, climbing off the waist with a grunt.

 

Eddie moaned pitifully, barely conscious let alone aware of what Brock was muttering. He tried to twist over on his side, but he was forced to remain laying on his back and he vaguely felt his legs being spread. "Qué haces?" he slurred, lifting his head feebly and squinting his eyes at the hazy figure. He didn't know what he did wrong for Brock to hurt him like this. It wasn't as if he asked for Goldberg to interfere. 

 

Brock ignore the question, ripping a hole in the bottom of the tights to gain access. He chuckled at the puckered entrance, spanking the ass and enjoying the startled cry that slipped out of the latino. "You got a great ass, Guerrero," he crowed, pressing a finger inside the opening. "Fuck, you're gonna be tight around my cock, aren't you?" he groaned, his member slowly hardening in his trunks.

 

Eddie yelped at the unwelcomed intrusion, squirming on the apron and arching his spine when another digit joined the first. "Ow! Get out of me, pervertido!" he wailed, tears pooling from the burning sensation. He'd fooled around with other guys in the past back when he was in WCW, but the flings never really went far. It was mostly handjobs and the occasional blowjob, not  _this._ He whined sharply as the bastard began scissoring around inside him, the nails scraping the delicate tissues, and he could feel something wet trickling out. 

 

"Why would you say that to someone who's prepping you?" Brock chided, withdrawing from the bleeding entrance and freeing his now stiff length from the confines of his wrestling attire. He nestled himself between the splayed thighs and pat the gold plate of the belt, meeting the terrified eyes. "I hope it hurts," he drawled, guiding his head and pushing it through the hole in the tights to line his member up with the opening.

 

Before Eddie could beg Lesnar to stop, deft hands grabbed the sharp indents of his hip bones and then something thick bludgeoned through the barely prepped channel. He threw his head back, a shrill screech ripping out of his throat, pounding his fists uselessly against the muscular chest. "Detenté! Stop! You're h-hurting me! Por favor, you're going to bre-break something-!" he howled incoherently, fresh tears streaking down towards his damp hairline.

 

Brock snickered, pounding inside the taut body, the movements slickened by blood and his precum. "You're tighter than a virgin," he moaned, digging his nails into the elastic pants and tearing the material up. "How does it feel, huh?" he panted, glaring at the sobbing man. He stopped thrusting for a brief moment, repositioning himself and throwing the chicano's legs over his shoulders. He leaned over Eddie so that his hands were on either side of his rival's head. The new role allowed his cock to push in far deeper and his eyes nearly rolled towards the back of his head. Then he snapped out of his daze, reminding himself that he wanted to humiliate Guerrero. He slapped the other wrestler, spitting at the bruised face. "You wanted this, didn't you?" he shouted, thumping his knuckles against the title still wrapped around the slender waist. "You wanted to be a champion, right? Well, here is your fucking congratulations!" he bellowed, smacking his former challenger with an open palm.

 

Eddie cried out, trying to cover his face to protect himself, but he only earned a bark of laughter that scathed his ears. "P-Por favor, if y-you want it back, then t-take it. Just get your thing o-out," he pleaded brokenly, wanting the pain to stop or at least black out so he didn't have to feel the disgusting way Brock's cock was sliding in and out of him. He never had sex before, at least not like this. If it was supposed to hurt, then he really wished he could have gone on with the rest of his life not knowing how it felt.

 

"Oh no, dumbass," Brock taunted, roughening the erratic pace, feeling the familiar churning knot of his climax building in the base of his spine. "You're not allowed to give up that easy,  _ese._ You're a champ, remember? Take it like one," he hissed, pumping his hips harder until he came with a yell, buring his cock all the way to the hilt and emptying his seeds inside the clenching channel. He pulled out of the abused entrance, shifting over and brushing the softening length against the mouth. "Clean it up for me, mister Big Shot. Use teeth and I'll throw you to the locker room. I'm not the only one who wanted to fuck you," he threatened.

 

Eddie whimpered and parted his lips obediently, gagging as soon as the member was shoved down his throat. It had been a few years since he'd last sucked someone off so he was a little rusty, choking on the girth before he managed to adjust to it and breathe properly. He swirled his tongue around the cock, cleaning off the blood and cum, the taste making him nauseous. He keened when Brock gripped his short hair and pivoted the hips forward until his nose was pressed against the pale blond pubes and he was retching again.

 

Lesnar let out a contented sigh and took his flaccid cock out of the spasming throat, smirking at the swollen lips and a trail of saliva clinging to them from his head. "Good boy," he praised in a mocking voice, patting the cheek and chuckling when Eddie flinched away from him. "Although I expected more out of you since you're always blowing Benoit backstage," he groused, feeling slightly underwhelmed from the blowjob.

 

Despite the pain and shock thanks to what had just occurred minutes ago, Eddie threw an indignant glare at the pendejo. "Chris and I aren't like that, cabron! We're just amigos," he argued hotly, trying to sit up, but white hot agony raced up from between his legs and he slumped back on the apron with a mewl, tremors rippling through him.

 

"Oh?" Brock was surprised, pretty much everyone thought the two were fucking each other with how close they always were. "Well, come to me for practice. Enjoy your reign,  _champ,_ _"_ he purred, stomping on the belt and guffawing at the loud scream. He got out of the ring and made his way towards the entrance ramp, finally feeling relaxed now that he'd gotten his frustrations out of his system so he can redirect his focus to Goldberg next week.

 

For a long time, Eddie didn't move, curling up in a ball and shivering uncontrollably. He broke down crying, shaking hands going down to rip the championship title off and tossing it away from him. He sniffled pathetically and glanced over his torso to see a purpling bruise blossoming from where Brock had stomped on him. Everything in his body hurt and it felt like the pain was never going to go away. He'd been through a lot, a whole fucking lot, in the past seventeen years. He had run into obstacle after obstacle, struggled with his inner demons, and faced countless of opponents who were twice his size. He had defeated the best and the strongest to win the most prestigious title a man could hold, and yet the exhilaration coursing through him earlier was gone now. His victory felt hollow. The gold plates of the belt were gleaming back at him almost as if mocking him.

 

He thought he'd achieved his lifelong dream, but it seemed that he was living a nightmare.

 

He may have had traded his demons for something else entirely. Something much worse. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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	2. Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update!!! I hope you like this second part to Hollow Victory. It might be a little rough around the edges, but I'll come back later and fix any mistakes! 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm so so sorry for taking forever to update my current one-shots / fanfics. Things have been really hectic this year.  
> My dad's health is failing and I'm going through paperworks since he wants to put me in charge of all his medical decisions, wishes, and will in the event his situation takes a turn for the worse.  
> I'm also back in college, whoop-ee-fucking-doo. I'm graduating soon so it's been a mess trying to save up and look for jobs post-college so I can make enough to get my own apartment. Not only that, I got promoted to manager at my work so I have almost zero free time I can dedicate to writing because I'm not a fast writer.  
> I'm also majorly stressed out to the point I'm losing hair and losing weight. If you're still in high school, enjoy it while it last and I hope your stress levels never get this high.   
> I'll try to get better at updating on a more regular schedule but I can't make any promises. I'll try my best to have at least two chapters for Blurred Lines up and posted before Christmas. Good news is that story is pretty much close to being wrapped up and finished. 
> 
> For those who still stick around, thank you! I'm super sorry for making you wait ridiculously long lengths for an update.

* * *

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Chris was worried sick. It had been a few hours since the pay-per-view event shut down and everyone left. Eddie was supposed to be at their hotel room ages ago, but the latino never showed up and wasn’t answering his texts or calls. It was so unlike his friend that he was starting to panic. He paced around the room, biting on his lip nervously and wondering if he should call the police. Then his phone went off and he practically dived onto the bed to grab it before it stopped ringing. “Hello?” he answered breathlessly, relief flooding through him when he heard the familiar accented voice.

 

“Hey, ese. I, um, I know I was supposed to stay the night with you, but uh, I got my own room. I’m down the hall. Door’s unlocked.”

 

Chris became confused, wondering why Eddie came to the hotel only to get a different room. “Okay, I’ll be right there. What’s the number?” he asked, quickly putting a sweater on and grabbing his room card on his way to the door. His brows furrowed when he realized that the chicano was staying literally right across the hall. He hung up and slipped the cell in the back pocket of his jeans, pushing open the door quietly and coming inside. His eyes widened at the mess in the room, spotting his best friend lying motionlessly in the bed. He bounded over, covering his mouth with a hand in shock once he was close enough to see the blood and bruises covering the younger man’s face and torso from what he could tell from the unbuttoned shirt. “Eddie! What happened?!”

 

Eddie cried out softly, going rigid in fear when he was gently turned over on his back and fingers gingerly prod at the bruises. “N-Nothing. Some asshole jumped me,” he mumbled, it wasn’t a lie, just not the full truth. He didn’t want to tell the Canadian exactly what happened, too scared that the man would either scoff at him or worse, accuse him of asking for it. “I-I’ll be fine, papi,” he squeaked, shyly meeting the frantic blue gaze. He didn’t look _that_ bad so he didn’t know why Chris was so worried about him. 

 

Benoit bit back a sigh, sensing that the other wrestler was hiding something from him, but he knew it wasn’t the time or the place to press. “C’mon, cheri, let’s clean you up,” he murmured, taking off his sweater before he began carefully helping Eddie sit up and leading the smaller man to the bathroom. He set the latino down on the toilet and turned the water on in the tub, making sure it was warm. “You should’ve called me. I’m not letting you hang around alone again,” he mumbled, a surge of protectiveness jolting through him as he glanced back at the bloodied face again. It was his fault that he didn’t stick around to make sure Eddie was safe.

 

Eddie blushed faintly and looked down to study his feet. “It’s not that big of a deal,” he muttered, holding his arms up over his head when Chris tugged his shirt off, biting back a wince when the movement pulled some muscles in his back from where he had been tackled in the ring by Brock. “You’re acting like I’m dying,” he joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood some because the concerned expression on Chris’ face was going to drive him crazy at this rate. He stood up and pulled his sweatpants down, grateful that his amigo turned around to give him some privacy. He didn’t want the older man to see the blood clinging to his thighs. He didn’t clean up or anything, just going straight to his bed as soon as he made it to the hotel. He regretted calling the Canadian because all he wanted to do was sleep. 

 

Chris waited until he heard water splashing, knowing that meant Guerrero was in the tub. He walked over and sat down at the ledge, grabbing a washcloth and gently scraping the blood off as gently as he could. “Where did the asshole jump on you? Was it at work or outside?” he demanded in a soft voice that didn’t show the anger he was feeling in his chest. He really should have known better. Eddie was a capable fighter, but the chicano was still short and an easy target if caught off guard. He mumbled an apology when he accidentally pressed too hard on a bruise, Eddie crying out in pain and trying to push him away.

 

“U-Um, it was in the parking lot when I was walking to my car,” Eddie stammered, trying to keep his lies in order so Benoit wouldn’t get too suspicious. He knew his co-worker was only trying to help, but he had to keep Lesnar’s identity a secret unless he wanted to risk being mocked and scorned. It might be stupid for him to cling onto his pride, but it was all he had left in a thin string. He lost everything in that ring, including his dignity, so he would be damned if he let anyone know that moment of weakness. He held his breath as the hand went down to his chest to continued washing off the blood, tremors starting to shake through him and he began praying that Chris wouldn’t go any farther. Logically, he knew his friend wouldn’t touch him inappropriately, but fear still wrapped around his mind and choked out any reasonable explanations. 

 

Chris slowed down when he felt Eddie shivering under him. “You okay?” he asked, tilting the chin up and his heart clenching at the blatant terror in the dilated brown gaze. “I won’t hurt you, cheri. I’m just cleaning you up,” he reassured gently, his other hand going to cup a cheek and the thumb brushing over the ear in slow soothing circles. He didn’t think that the beating would scare Eddie this badly and it was killing him inside that the latino was frightened even of his touches. 

 

Eddie forced a smile, nodding jerkily. “Si, just t-t-tired,” he stammered, slowly relaxing as the washcloth came back up away from his lower body. “I can clean myself, I’m not some toddler,” he complained, squirming incessantly in the tub. He hated when other people had to take care of him like this. His nephew, Chavito, did it for years and ended up resenting him for it. Not that he blamed the younger Guerrero. He just didn’t want to lose his best friend as well. Chris was the only one who hadn’t grown tired of him yet.

 

Chris shook his head, shushing the chicano gently and leaning over to kiss the clammy forehead. “It’s alright. I don’t mind, plus you seem to be in pain,” he murmured, his fingers still tracing over the cheeks. He really didn’t have a problem with doing this. He liked making sure Eddie was safe and he rather be the one cleaning him up since he didn’t trust anyone else. Once all of the blood was washed off the face and chest, Chris pulled the drain plug out, not expecting the younger wrestler to start freaking out. He yelped, startled when Guerrero punched him in the face, backing off and clutching his now bleeding nose. “Hey, calm down!”

 

Eddie didn’t hear Chris, panicking too much since the hand had went down between his legs in the water. He was too far gone to realize that the Canadian had only been meaning to grab the plug. “No! I’ll give you the belt! Just don’t touch me again!” he shrieked, thrashing in the tub and causing waves of water to splash over the ledge, soaking both Chris and the bathroom floor. He snapped out of his blind attack when he was slapped across the face, going limp and shivering wordlessly while he stared off into space.

 

Chris cursed; he shouldn’t have hit the latino, but he didn’t know what else he could do in order to make Eddie stop fighting. “Cheri, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispered, reaching out to cup the other man’s face. “Let’s get you out,” he mumbled, his heart breaking when he didn’t get any response. He really hoped he hadn’t damaged his co-worker. At that, a thought ran through his head and he imagined himself taking Eddie to some store to get a refund because the chicano was broken. He began laughing hysterically before he caught himself, clearing his throat and helping Eddie out of the tub. Chris wrapped a towel around the slim body and dried the skin off, his chest constricting painfully at all the dark bruises marring the tanned flesh. “Are you sure you don’t know who attacked you?” he questioned, still suspicious that the other wrestler was hiding something from him. He could read Guerrero like a book and he damn well knew that there was more to the story.

 

Eddie blinked at the words, being careful not to meet the blue gaze. “Uh, I dunno. I might remember later, but it’s a blank right now,” he muttered, keeping the towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He was grateful that the Canadian hadn’t noticed the blood and cum between his legs earlier, hastily clawing the crusted pieces off back in the tub before he had lost himself into a flashback. He let Chris put some basketball shorts and a red tank top on him, clinging tightly on his amigo and whimpering as hands tried to ease him onto the bed. “No!” he blurted out, hiding his face in the crest of Chris’ shoulder and breaking out in tears again.

 

Chris winced at the shouting, his ears feeling like they were going to bleed from how loud the smaller man was being. “Ed--” he didn’t get to finish, Eddie’s screams turning even more shrill after he did another attempt of putting his friend down. He didn’t know what to do, but he quickly had to figure something out before the hotel staff ended up calling the cops on them. The other guests probably thought that this was a kidnapping considering all the ruckus that was going on. He managed to compromise by sitting down on the edge of the bed and keeping Eddie in his lap. “Cheri, please. I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, brushing some of the wet strands of hair off of the forehead.

 

Eddie moaned fearfully, trembling in Benoit’s lap once the shrieks died off and he was hiccuping faintly. He really hated himself for letting Brock reduce him to a weak quivering heap of coward that he was acting like right now. “Please don’t do it, don’t do the bad thing,” he babbled incoherently, burying his face in the warm chest. “I’ll give up the belt, but don’t do it,” he whined, curling his fingers in the wet shirt and letting out a shuddering breath. He worked super hard to win the championship, but now he didn’t even want to look at the damn thing anymore.     

 

Chris shushed the younger man, the helplessness rising up again at the way Eddie was shaking in his embrace. “Ed….did someone…” he couldn’t finish the question. He couldn’t. The way his best friend was acting made him wonder if the attacker did _that_ but no. It couldn't have happened -- he shouldn’t even be thinking of that. “I’m not going to do any bad things to you,” he reassured the terrified wrestler, continuing running his hand through the blond hair. He glanced down and grimaced at how his shirt was still soaked from the adventure in the bathroom. He couldn't sleep like this or he would get a cold, and he had a distinct feeling that taking his shirt off would only make Eddie panic more. Chris sighed, not wanting to do this, but he had no other choices. “I have to go back to my room and change shirts. I’ll be gone only for a minute and I’ll bring the rest of my stuff over so I won’t have to leave again,” he explained, trying not to feel so guilty when Guerrero looked up at him with wide bambi eyes. He couldn’t stand it when the latino did that -- it always made him weak-kneed. “I swear I’ll be right back,” he grumbled, ignoring the blush on his face and planting a chaste kiss on Eddie’s cheek.

 

Eddie reluctantly got out of Chris’ lap, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he watched the Canadian leave the room with a hasty apology. He was scared that Benoit wouldn’t come back, that he finally succeeded in driving away the one person who had always been there for him because wasn’t that what always happened? Forget wrestling, his real talent was losing friends. No one wanted to put up with his problems and he really didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want to put up with somebody like him either. He scratched his arm self-consciously, his eyes catching the gold plates of the belt gleaming from where the title was poking out of his duffle bag. He suddenly felt a powerful surge of anger washing over him. This all happened because he wanted the stupid championship. He stormed over and yanked it out of the bag, opening the window and he was about to throw the useless piece of shit out when there was a shout and strong arms wrapped around him, being pulled away from the window. “Let me go! I have to get rid of it!” he spat, struggling against the grip. Chris had stayed true to the promise and was back quicker than he had been expecting. He broke down crying once the belt was taken away from him.

 

Chris was puzzled by Eddie’s odd behavior and seeing the man about to throw out the one thing that he had been working hard for almost twenty years didn’t help any. “What’s going on, cheri? Why do you have to get rid of it?” Chris asked softly, putting the title down and pulling Eddie into a firm hug, wanting to do anything to stop the wrenching sobs spilling out of his shorter co-worker. “I know you remember and if you don’t want to tell me right now, that’s fine,” he murmured, guiding the chicano back to the bed. He honestly did want to know but maybe it was for the best and he knew if he kept prodding Eddie, his friend would only end up shutting him out and that was the last thing he wanted.

 

Eddie only cried harder in response, curling up against Chris once they both laid down and he was resting on top of the Canadian. “H-He thought you and I were like t-together and he thought I had p-practice with the thing,” he rambled, hiccuping and struggling to breathe properly since snot clogged up his throat and nose. He felt Chris stiffened under him and he whimpered, hoping he wasn’t going to be hit.

 

“Practice?” Chris hissed, horrified and disgusted at the image. He wasn’t really surprised by that since there were always rumors circulating backstage about him and Eddie being far closer than friends. It was one of the main reasons why he put in the transfer for Raw, he didn’t want his fellow wrestler’s reputation being ruined because of some assholes. He swallowed his anger down, now having a strong feeling of what exactly Eddie went through. As soon as he found out whoever it was that attacked his best friend, there would be hell to pay. “What a bastard. Do you need me to take you to the hospital or anything?”

 

“No! No hospitals, por favor,” Eddie pleaded hysterically, not wanting to have anyone poking him down there. He didn’t want to feel anything between his legs like that again or he would be ripped in half. “C-Can you kiss me? I-I can still taste him,” he whispered, a blush heating up his face and reddening his cheeks. He felt disgusting, like a pervert, for asking but he didn’t know how to get rid of the taste of Brock’s cock out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” he stammered, more tears leaking out and he quickly ducked his head to hide in Chris’ chest again.

 

Chris’ own face was bright scarlet only because the last time Eddie asked him that, the man had been drunk as hell and they almost went further. It didn’t appear that the latino remembered that night, thank god, but he still felt terrible and he wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. “Cheri..” He sighed, petting the drying hair and biting on his lip. “There’s mouthwash,” he offered awkwardly, wanting to die from the embarrassment.

 

Eddie shook his head, making a face at that. “I already tried mouthwash. I want you,” he squeaked, hesitantly peeking up at the Canadian. “Please?” he whined, desperate to stop feeling so sick. He wouldn’t ask this if it were anyone else, but he trusted Chris. 

 

Benoit groaned, not being able to resist the puppy eyes. “Fine,” he muttered, blushing even more once Eddie sat up and straddled his hips. He studied the chestnut gaze, his humiliation fading away once he realized that his friend was still shaken up from the assault. Even with all the damage visible on the toned body and face, Eddie was still just as handsome and strong like he always thought he was. “You’re  magnifique,” he murmured almost inaudibly, reaching out to cup the cheeks with both hands and gently leaning in to brush his mouth against the latino’s. He closed his eyes at the pure softness of the lips, they were like velvet. Chris quickly pulled away, not wanting to drag the moment on, not when Eddie was still suffering. He smiled in amusement at the way Eddie almost followed him. 

 

Eddie’s eyes fluttered open and he squeaked at the faint grin on Chris’ face. “G-Gracias,” he mumbled, shyly snuggling against the Canadian again, his head nestled underneath the chin. “I hope you don’t think I’m a pervertido,” he confessed, purring faintly as the hands began rubbing his back in slow, gentle scratches. He felt exhausted all of the sudden, the day catching up to him. He did have an intense match earlier in the night and after what Lesnar did, all of his energy was drained. Their positions switched and they were both now laying on their sides, him still nuzzled against the warm body, their legs tangled together. He wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow since Chris had to leave for Raw, but he would have to enjoy this for now. 

 

“No, not at all,” Chris laughed quietly, breathing in the scent of shampoo that was still wafting off of Eddie from the tub. He already made up his mind about taking a day off tomorrow so he could be with his best friend. He was considering asking Vince if he could return to SmackDown or have Eddie transferred to Raw with him, at least temporarily until the chicano was no longer in any danger of being hurt again. “I’m not going to leave you ever again,” he whispered to himself, hugging Eddie tightly and keeping the man close to his chest. It wasn’t long until faint snores filled up the small room and he chuckled. Guerrero was always a fast sleeper and was like a rock so he felt better knowing that his co-worker would finally be resting peacefully for the remainder of the night. He reached over and turned the light off before snuggling more firmly against the smaller man. His last thought before he fell into a slumber was debating whether to get gasoline or some rat poison for the person responsible for harming Eddie.

  
His last thought was actually _“I love you.”_

 

 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this as cute and fluffy as possible, but I don't think it came out that well lmao.
> 
> I posted a sketch at the end of this chapter, hopefully you were able to see it. I'm not the greatest "artist" but Eddie and Chris are seriously so cute to draw.

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to have the assault happen right after the match. Yup, Brock was gonna beat up Eddie and fuck him in front of the crowd on live television, but I'm lazy and didn't want to add all the extra details so hence this final draft


End file.
